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and then he and John Kirkland clambered out.
    From where they stood the building site was clearly visible away to the west.
    The wood stood defiantly before them, its trees jammed tightly together as if to form a barrier to any who might wish to enter. As the two men pushed their way through the chest-high bushes which grew on the perimeter, Kirkland cursed the brambles that cut his flesh. One particularly long hawthorn spike dug deeply into the back of his right hand, drawing blood, and he winced in pain.
    ‘Why the bloody hell couldn’t Cutler have come up here himself?’ he said, wiping the crimson droplets away with his handkerchief. ‘I mean, if he wants the wood levelled, fair enough. All we have to do is send a dozen blokes up here with chainsaws, then bulldoze the whole lot when they’ve finished.’
    ‘It seems like such a waste, doesn’t it?’ said King, looking around at the ancient trees which towered over them like sentinels. ‘Flattening this lot.’
    ‘Come on, Frank, don’t have a fit of environmental conscience now,’ Kirkland said, tugging himself free of a clinging gorse bush.
    The foreman smiled.
    ‘There should be a few thousand quids’ worth of paper here,’ he said, tapping the trunk of one tree.
    As the men moved deeper into the wood King noticed how dark it was becoming. Despite the scarcity of leaves on the branches, the trees still seemed to be blocking out a great deal of natural light. King wondered how any of the mosses and lichens which carpeted the floor of the wood managed to grow. He kicked a rotted tree stump aside, stepping back in revulsion as he saw dozens of wood lice spilling from the hulk like maggots from a festering wound. Two or three extremely large ground spiders also scuttled into view. Kirkland crushed one beneath his foot.
    Ahead of them was a clearing, perhaps twenty or thirty yards in diameter, and here the ground was covered by a blanket of brown leaves. They crackled noisily as the two men walked over them.
    King stopped in the centre of the treeless area, relieved to be free of the dark confines of the dense wood. He was beginning to feel quite claustrophobic.
    High above them, the sky was the colour of wet concrete and a gathering of black clouds to the north promised rain.
    Kirkland kicked away some of the dead leaves and dug the toe of his boot into the earth, kicking up a large clod.
    ‘The foundations are going to have to be laid deep if Cutler wants us to build here,’ he said, sucking at the small cut on his hand. He bent down and picked up a handful of the moist topsoil, turning it over in his hand, prodding the dark matter and then finally dropping it.
    His palms were stained a deep, rusty red.
    The colour of dried blood.
    Kirkland rubbed his hands together, trying to wipe away the stain. He smelt a musty odour and coughed. The ground around his feet was also tinged dark red.
    The trees rattled noisily in the wind as the two men turned to make their way back.
    ‘The sooner this lot’s flattened the better,’ said Kirkland, rubbing his hands on his overalls.
    As they left the clearing, the gloom closed around them again.

 
     
     
     
Eight
     
    ‘What sort of rock is it?’ Kim asked, watching as George Perry used a chisel to shave off a piece of the slab.
    Perry held the lantern over it and prodded the powdery rock with one finger.
    ‘It looks like limestone,’ he said. ‘It would have to be reasonably soft to take those nails.’ He motioned to the circles of stone with the skeletons spreadeagled on them.
    ‘Then they shouldn’t be too difficult to move,’ Cooper said excitedly.
    The gas lamps cast a dull yellow glow around the base of the pit, illuminating the host of artifacts and bones that littered the sacrificial well. Many of the objects had already been removed for analysis. Three or four of the team were packing them carefully into the back of the Land Rover which would transport them into Longfield.
    As yet none of the bones